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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24871171">The Colors of Grief</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/theburningearth/pseuds/theburningearth'>theburningearth</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Death, Depression, Gen, Grief, Loss, Thorin is a Softie, all the feels</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:48:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,383</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24871171</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/theburningearth/pseuds/theburningearth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dis reflects on grief and the loss of her husband.</p><p>Please read the tags for content!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dís &amp; Thorin Oakenshield, Dís/Dís's Husband</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Colors of Grief</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Black is not the color of grief. Black is all-consuming; it devours your soul and your mind, leaving you an empty husk of a being. Black is like the deepest mine without a flicker of lamplight. Like the darkest night. Except even night gives way to light.</p><p>Some people even think that grief is a deep blue. The way the sky looks before night completely takes over. They won’t say anything, but they’ll wonder why you don’t look sad, or aren’t crying more. They won’t know you prefer crying where no one can hear your anguish, or see you shake from the force of your sobs. Grief doesn’t always look sad, you want to say. But you have no energy left, because you were bawling the night before.</p><p>No, grief is gray. Gray, the hazy color of indecisiveness. Gray doesn’t leave you an empty husk of a being; it devours your soul yes, and sometimes your mind, but there’s always a little functional sliver so at least you can make the funeral arrangements and be aware of your irrational actions. As much as you might want to, you can’t shut down just yet.</p><p>You stand in front of your deceased husband’s hastily finished tomb, your boys and brother by your side, with black ribbons and torn beards. Prayers from the priests of Mahal fill the air, lifting and guiding his soul to his maker’s side as the coffin is lowered into the tomb. You recite another prayer with your family, praising the virtues of Mahal, the one you will recite daily for the next eleven months.</p><p>Will he wait for you in the halls of Mandos? Will he be reborn? There’s no comfort in not knowing. In the receiving line, you shake hands. Watch as if from afar as countless dwarfs and dams file past paying their respects. Young couples, old couples, widows, and widowers. Will you look that lonely when you get older?</p><p>At the door, two families linger, their kids tugging at hands and scuffing the floor with their boots. You stare. You see how together they look, how <em>complete.</em> “Your Highness?” Your gaze flies back to the dwarf currently in front of you. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.” He bows and moves to your boys, shaking their tiny hands. You stare. And stare.</p><p>Deep inside your bruised, gray heart, there’s a flash of red, the first of many.</p><p>Nobody ever told you that grief is red. Red as a sunrise, the mountain piercing the sky and making it bleed. Red flickers across your vision like fire, makes you want to scream and yell at the unfairness of it all. Your boys don’t have a complete family anymore. Neither do you.</p><p>In the week that follows, grief looks like lying in bed and staring at the wall. You wish you felt guilty about leaving Thorin by himself to receive visitors. Grief looks like pasting on a brave face for your boys and hoping they don’t see how fake it is. You do feel guilty when they’re not fooled.</p><p>A lot of people come. Food floods in, meals meant to comfort, even though you have many chefs to cook for you. People want to express their sympathy, or ask how you’re feeling. But they don’t ask, because tradition dictates they wait for you to speak first. It’s supposed to be a nice gesture, but you wish you didn’t have to speak first. It feels like a chore. Most often you sit in silence. People say they’ll pray for you, pray for your family. You nod your head, wishing they’d leave you alone already.</p><p>They don’t. More red streaks among the gray.</p><p>In a way they’re lucky. Even if they too have experienced grief, it’s healed enough for them to move on.</p><p>You’re not lucky. The last time you were lucky was when you had your youngest son, who is now fatherless. Who would have thought a dwarf like your husband could look at, let alone be interested in, a dam like you. He could have had anything he wanted, gone anywhere he wanted, been anyone he wanted. You were stuck in politics, and he chose to stay there with you. Those were golden hours.</p><p>You’ll tell your boys stories one day. Stories of who he was. Stories of how you met, became friends, talked, flirted, annoyed Thorin, fell in love, married. The greatest romance of our time, the people whispered. The hope of a generation that lost everything. You’re too young to remember Smaug and the destruction of Erebor, but you’ve heard the stories. The devastation, destruction, and defeat was almost too much for your people. Your grandfather did not help much after either.</p><p>Azanulbizar should have been a lesson in grief for everyone. A victory that wasn’t. It seems to you people would rather forget what grief feels like.</p><p>You can never forget. This is an ache that will stay with you forever. It will fade perhaps, but it will linger and throb and hurt.</p><p>Time doesn’t wait for wounds to heal. Neither does politics. After that first week, you attend the meetings, hearings, and councils. You hear, but don’t listen. Your mind is elsewhere. Where exactly it is doesn’t matter. The chair beside you is where your husband used to sit. You try not to think about how empty it looks.</p><p>When the day is almost done, you visit the tomb like you do every day, watching as the small smattering of gemstones grows as people pay their respects and give short prayers. He was well-loved by others, just as he loved others well. You recite your daily prayer, wishing and longing for what can never be again. The rituals are supposed to guide a person from mourning back to living. You suppose it works for some people.</p><p>Some nights are black. Some are blue. Mostly gray. Some nights you wonder why he had to be taken so early, why it had to be him. He didn’t fall in battle; it happened while he was inspecting a mine. A freak accident, people whispered. Dwarves are usually so careful. Why was it different that day?</p><p>So slowly you almost don’t notice, green edges the gray. Sometimes you fight it, clinging to the pain, scared and feeling like you’d betray his memory by letting go, though Thorin tries to tell you otherwise. Dwarves are a stubborn race, and it’s a well-known fact the royals are the most stubborn, by both heritage and necessity. Stubbornness is your birthright as much as a crown.</p><p>You take care of your brother and the boys, as they take care of you. You hold them as they cry themselves to sleep, whispering soothing words and humming lullabies. When they ask, you tell them stories of their father. How he laughed, worked, or thought before he spoke. How he smiled, how he greeted every dwarf he passed, no matter their rank or position. You tell them about <em>who</em> he was, not what he was or what he did.</p><p>Little by little, you’re able to forgive. You let the gray fade to green and a little bit of orange.</p><p>Your boys help you heal. So does Thorin, when he reminds you that others also loved your husband. On the anniversary of his death, you recite the prayer with your family, and the first thought that comes to mind is not the tomb slamming shut over the coffin, but the light in his eyes when he first held your sons. You still cry when you see your boys trying on their dad’s clothes, or pulling a face the way he used to. Your sons, bless them, know it’s okay to cry like this.</p><p>Grief, you learn, doesn’t last forever. Memory does. Love does. Pain does, though it’s tempered and dulled. You’re no longer scared to let it go. You could never betray his memory by doing so.</p><p>You wish you could remember the exact sound of his voice or the feel of his arms around you, but you never forget the way he said, “I love you.” Grief, you learn, turns to reflection. Reflection leads to remembrance, which leads to silly stories and giggles around dinner.</p><p>Orange leads to yellow, and slowly, as the years pass, the hours turn to gold.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The creativity muse called at 12:30 last night and I had to answer.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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